


Memory, Arrow-Sharp

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 10:22:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14103291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: The darkness is vanquished, the long night is over, and still Edain will not forget.





	Memory, Arrow-Sharp

**Author's Note:**

> For the March 2018 challenge at [Monthly Challenge Super Go!](https://monthlysupergo.dreamwidth.org/)

Late evening, in the depths of the heat of summer, was a time of quiet contemplation even in the far-flung backlands of rural Isaach, and surely never more so than on an abbey's holy grounds. Which made it all the more startling when a messenger on a lathered horse came pounding up to that same abbey's courtyard gate, shouting for Lady Edain.

She'd frozen, for a long painful moment, nearly two decades of hiding after that bloody massacre ingrained in habit. But the joyful shouting in the courtyard hardly _sounded_ like news of yet more deaths and terror, so Edain gathered herself up, touching the twisted sash of her robes briefly, wrapped herself in her dignity, and went out to see why her presence was suddenly so important.

-*-

... It was over. The long years of darkness were over. Seliph and his young band -- Lester, Lana -- they had done it. The Grannvale Empire was no more, and Loptyr ended with it.

Edain felt, frankly, overwhelmed. After so many years ... Thanking the messenger, she directed him to stabling for his horse and food for himself -- ignoring his surprise at the abbess seeing to his needs -- and promptly excused herself, the moment courtesy allowed it, from the throngs of villagers already beginning to plan well-deserved festivities. There was so much she needed to do before they all returned -- if return they all did, what with homes, and thrones, to be reclaimed -- and, more than that, more than anything else that very moment, she herself needed _time_.

Time to reflect. Time to mourn, and to let go of mourning. But most of all to remember those lost, and Edain carried more than one of those memories with her.

-*-

_... So that's how it is. Well, perhaps I'll cling to that hope a little longer, then._

A thin packet of letters, spread across her desk, had brought good news and, if not _bad_ news, at least ambivalent. Edain sighed and picked up the leaves covered in Finn's terse penmanship and sighed; should she reach out to this Eyvel and see if memory couldn't be jolted twice, or was it better to let it all be, and see what the future could bring? If Finn were mistaken, it would be a horrible thing to keep harassing the poor woman over, and clearly -- whoever Eyvel truly was -- she had gone above and beyond for them regardless. And ... there were Brigid's children to consider. 

Edain chewed on her lip, staring into the flickering lantern's tiny flame; if she reached out, but Finn's assumptions were incorrect, how disappointed would they be? Would it even matter, after all these years, save as a matter of familial honour, like all the rest ... No, she told herself, that was unfair and unjust. It was right for the young to wish to see the wrongs inflicted on their parents set right again. If they had chosen otherwise -- if Seliph had turned his back on the false betrayal and false shame heaped on his father's head -- then every last kingdom, village and crofter would have been lost to tyranny and darkness. And that was a thought she could not bear, even now ...

_Listen to me. So many innocents are saved, now, so much that can be put right, and I'm wallowing. This should be a time of joy, not for picking at old wounds finally allowed to heal._

_What is wrong with me? Honestly ..._

Oh, but Edain suspected she knew why -- who knew her heart better than her own self, after all? And in all the celebrations, all the joys, the gleeful letters from Lana and Lester and all the children under her wing that rambled about their victories and their plans to rebuild and start again in their parents' names, there was still something -- no, some _one_ \-- missing, in Edain's own eyes.

Missing from letters and celebrations, perhaps, but not from her heart. Without conscious thought she slipped a hand into a small pocket in the twist of her sash, searching through the folds until she found the small precious prize: a twisted and scorched piece of silver, half melted, to all appearances a fragment from a horse's tack or a bit of armour or similar military fitting. Just a small, broken bit of metal but so much more besides, and let no one gainsay her keeping the token close.

In the end, he did succeed, poor lost soul. Edain closed her eyes briefly against -- not tears, no, not after so many years, but against something both more wounding and more long-lasting than any tears of grief. Even after so much time, the memories were as fresh as they ever were ...

-*-

"Milady! I am so sorry, please forgive me for failing you so horribly --"

Dirty and wild-eyed from her harrowing escape -- for all that Verdane's youngest prince had shown her mercy, his elder brothers and their men pursued her like a hunted hare -- Edain reached out to that familiar voice as a drowning man would clutch after a rope and found herself lifted to a warhorse's back while chaos erupted all around.

Midir. It was Midir's horse she rode, Midir's back she clung to as he wheeled his steed around and peppered Verdane infantry with a hail of arrows, his face drawn and pale and grim with anger at the barbarians who dared to threaten her, dared to carry her off. But how -- she'd seen him fall to the invaders when Jungby was taken -- not that she'd any regrets about seeing him alive and whole, but --

A flash of white and silver and cobalt blue, a rallying cry, answered half her questions: Sigurd of Chalphy, calling Grannvale's soldiers to put an end to Edain's pursuers, show them the folly of their act. The second half was answered subtly, silently, to her horrified dismay, as the battle wore on and small details trickled into her awareness: the jump of straining muscles as Midir shot arrow after arrow, the growing familiarity to her healer's eye of that pallor in his face, and -- most telling of all -- the tang of blood, fresh blood, in the air though she saw him take but scratches. Midir fought still wounded from her capture, and she was horrified. But before she could catch his attention and raise a protest at his recklessness fortune intervened -- Quan of Leonster, his lance slicked with Verdane blood, reined in his horse alongside Midir's straining mount and relayed a new command -- to leave the battlefield, and take the Lady Edain with him.

She was surprised Midir did not protest; she should have known better. By the time they'd ridden clear of the scrum and found their way to Sigurd's bivouac, Midir was trembling with the effort to stay upright in the saddle and needed Oifey's help to dismount from his horse; worse, he tried to fight off all aid to walk him to the healer's tent to have his injuries seen to properly. Shocked, Edain drew breath to chastise him for his foolishness -- and then he'd turned to face her, his face ashen but resolute, and sketched a bow with obvious difficulty.

"No, Milady, these are nothing compared to my failure. I'll heal, I'm halfway there as it is.

"Let me redeem myself, please, that's all I ask."

-*-

The flickering of lantern-light reflected in the tears that, despite her stern self-reproaches, still threatened to well up. Edain rolled the bit of silver between her fingertips, feeling the roughness where it had clung to thick wool and the segments that still somehow retained their original smooth forgework. Once, there was a time she'd told herself she should at least clean it, but no. No, the stains and the scorch needed to remain, one more little piece of the past that could not, must not be brushed away. He deserved more than that, at least.

_You tried so hard, didn't you. Through two years and better and you never once complained about being surrounded by your betters. It only made you more determined, didn't it._

_I wish I'd told you more often how much I appreciated it._

Even during her courtship, and then her marriage, Midir stayed by her side. Not literally, of course -- Edain laughed softly despite herself at the thought that image conjured up -- but her steadfast guardian he did remain. And, if ever Midir had harboured dark thoughts of his own over dreams and hopes thwarted -- if her suspicions had, indeed, been correct -- then not not once did he let those emotions affect his devotion to her, nor his working relationship with her husband. 'Spinster bodyguard', the army called him, and he'd only shrug and laugh, and say that he'd not break the promise that he made to Lady Edain.

_And I should have said how much that meant to me more often, as well._

Oh, regrets were terrible things, weren't they. So many years later, Edain understood what drove Midir very well indeed.

Lit by the lantern-light, the silver piece in her hand glowed warmly, almost ominously; for a moment it looked nearly like an ember held between her fingers and Edain flinched at the sight. For a heartbeat she fancied she could hear the false condemnations ringing down again, hear Arvis' strained voice proclaim them traitors all -- that she felt the heat of the fires raining down from all sides -- and that, that was the most painful, the most precious memory of all.

She would not let herself forget --

-*-

There had been something ominous hanging in the air that day as Sigurd led them all back to the capital, to meet with the king and, once and for all, clear themselves of any claims of wrongdoing. Maybe it was the weight of guilt-by-association for so long, however misplaced; maybe it was simply the stony regard of the Grannvale troops and the Royal Guard as, in ordered ranks behind Sigurd and his charger, they filed into the rolling parklands surrounding Belhalla Castle to meet with Arvis and set the matter to rest.

All was calm, despite Edain's foreboding, not a single cloud marred the sky ... and Edain was still grateful to have Midir watching sharply while she resolutely marched with Jamke by her side. As a bow knight, of course, Midir still rode. If Edain suspected that also helped to cover for old injuries that never quite recovered from his foolish antics, well, it caused no harm and Midir had certainly honed his skills with reins and bow over the last two years. Nor was he the only cavalier present, after all.

Finally the meeting-grounds came into view, and Sigurd let them all to their expected positions without hesitation. Arvis, Duke of Velthomer, waited at a small hillock; the grassy expanse was flanked at either side by the red-liveried members of the Roten Ritter and more of the Royal Guard ...

At first, all seemed well. Arvis began to speak, Sigurd replied when proper, and Edain allowed herself to relax the merest fraction ... Then sunlight glinted off of silvery hair.

She heard Sigurd's cry of despair -- they _all_ did -- and then there was no time, no _time_ \-- the world was erupting in flames and crashing skyfire, screaming horses and panicking troops as the Royal Guard closed ranks. 

The Roten Ritter began to hem them in, chanting; horrified, terrified, Edain caught the glimpse of a tome through the burning, panicking crush and felt her heart wither in her chest. Meteor. Meteor after Meteor was cast down on their heads and the world was fire and blood -- Jamke, already aflame, tried to hurl her away, out of range, gored through by lances from faceless assailants, they knew his skill and struck him down as quickly as possible but no, no, she _could_ save him yet ... Beneath her hands her beloved breathed his last, a smile of agony on blackening lips, and she was not spared herself, and the magefire rained down another volley to wipe them from the face of Grannvale --

The scream of a horse directly behind her head made her scream in answering terror before shaking arms reached down to try and haul her up into a saddle, pulled her along the burning ground. Midir; burned, bleeding, disfigured, he urged his mount towards the edge of the conflagration, rasped desperate pleas as she saw the Ritter closing in, as bodies fell and writhed, as the parkland burned --

"please ... milady, let me ..."

His words were lost. Edain saw the spell gather above her, knew that there was no chance to flee -- and the snarl of burning death was deflected by a horse's dying scream. Midir tumbled from the saddle, blackened, still somehow staggering to his feet as the cursed mages prepared yet another volley and the Guard closed their net on the shattered remnants of Sigurd's forces.

"... milady ... run."

Barely audible, those whispered, broken words; Midir -- though surely blinded with pain and blood and burning, dying on his feet -- wheeled as the enemy closed in. 

The third volley also failed to strike Edain down, though sudden impact drove Edain from her feet and sent her sprawling, cloak and robes heavy with half-melted bits of armour and archer's fittings, ash and soaked-in blood ...

... Midir, unrecognizable, peppered -- oh terrible irony -- with Grannvale arrows, had blocked the volley of flame and feathered death with his own body.

_"... run."_

The Ritter and the Guard swarmed to finish him, unmindful of Edain where she lay stunned, more concerned with one stubborn archer. And Edain, wailing in her heart and stricken in spirit, still heard that final plea ringing in her ears as she struggled to her feet and fled the slaughter while she dared hope to survive.

-*-

The lantern burned low; lost in memories, she'd not noticed the passing of the hours. There was work to be done, and worshippers to counsel, healing to be administered, come the morning ...

Healing. Yes.

Through tears that finally came, Edain kissed the bit of silver -- Midir's quiver-clasp, scorched to her clothing on that terrible day -- and returned it to its place with a gentle pat. Perhaps, by some, he was overlooked. No children fought in his name, nor bore exalted blood from his veins.

But none of that mattered.

_You kept your promise, dear one, and I will not let you be forgotten._


End file.
